It must be remembered that a sentence may be written out in musical form as well as a song or any other musical composition, the chief difference being this: in the melody of song everything is arbitrary; in the melody of speech everything is voluntary. In other words, when you sing a song you must sing the notes as they are written on the musical staff; in reading an essay you make your own music.

Now it must be very evident that those people who are unable to sing, because of their lack of appreciation of musical sound, must be under great disadvantage in making good music when they speak. It is not necessary, however, that a person should be a good musician or singer in order to be a good speaker. It is only necessary that the speaker should have such an appreciation of musical sound that the variety of intonation employed may be pleasing to the ear. Let it not be imagined, however, that an agreeable melody can be acquired by a few weeks' practice. It may take months and years, and never be thoroughly mastered; but any improvement in this direction is a substantial gain.

The attainment of a pleasing variety of intonation secures two things that are essential to the successful public speaker: first, a well modulated voice, which renders all speech agreeable; second, inflection, which renders all speech effective and intelligent. A careful and continuous study and practice of the following suggestions is recommended for the improvement of the melody of the voice.

The First Step: Practice Colloquial Reading.-A number of colloquial selections should be secured. The following are admirable specimens of colloquial style:

A SIMILAR CASE.

Jack, I hear you 've gone and done it,—
Yes, I know; most fellows will;
Went and tried it once myself, sir,
Though you see I 'm single still.
And you met her-did you tell me—
Down at Newport, last July,
And resolved to ask the question
At a soirée ? So did I.

I suppose you left the ball-room,
With its music and its light;
For they say love's flame is brightest
In the darkness of the night.
Well, you walked along together,
Overhead the starlit sky;

And I'll bet-old man, confess it—
You were frightened. So was I.

So you strolled along the terrace,
Saw the summer moonlight pour
All its radiance on the waters,
As they rippled on the shore,
Till at length you gathered courage,
When you saw that none was nigh—
Did you draw her close and tell her
That you loved her? So did I.

Well, I need n't ask you further,
And I'm sure I wish you joy.
Think I'll wander down and see you
When you're married—eh, my boy?
When the honeymoon is over

And you're settled down, we 'll try—
What? the deuce you say! Rejected-
You rejected? So was I.

Anonymous.

This selection and the following one should be read and re-read until the intonations seem as natural as though you were engaged in a conversation with an old friend.

OLD CHUMS.

Is it you, Jack? Old boy, is it really you?

I should n't have known you but that I was told You might be expected;-pray, how do you do? But what, under heavens, has made you so old?

Your hair! why, you 've only a little gray fuzz! And your beard's white! but that can be beautifully dyed;

And your legs are n't but just half as long as they was; And then-stars and garters! your vest is so wide.

Is this your hand? Lord, how I envied you that

In the time of our courting,-so soft, and so small, And now it is callous inside, and so fat,—

Well, you beat the very old deuce, that is all.

Turn round! let me look at you! is n't it odd

How strange in a few years a fellow's chum grows! Your eye is shrunk up like a bean in a pod,

And what are these lines branching out from your nose?

Your back has gone up and your shoulders gone down,
And all the old roses are under the plough;
Why, Jack, if we 'd happened to meet about town,
I would n't have known you from Adam, I vow!

You've had trouble, have you? I'm sorry; but, John,
All trouble sits lightly at your time of life.
How's Billy, my namesake? You do n't say he's gone
To the war, John, and that you have buried your wife?

Poor Katherine! so she has left you-ah me!

I thought she would live to be fifty, or more. What is it you tell me? She was fifty-three!

O no, Jack! she was n't so much by a score.

Well, there's little Katy,-was that her name, John?
She'll rule your house one of these days like a queen.
That baby! good lord! is she married and gone?
With a Jack ten years old! and a Katy fourteen!

Then I give it up! Why, you 're younger than I

By ten or twelve years, and to think you've come back A sober old greybeard, just ready to die!

I don't understand how it is,—do you, Jack?

I've got all my faculties yet, sound and bright;
Slight failure my eyes are beginning to hint;
But still, with my spectacles on, and a light
'Twixt them and the page, I can read any print.

My hearing is dull, and my leg is more spare,
Perhaps, than it was when I beat you at ball;
My breath gives out, too, if I go up a stair,—
But nothing worth mentioning, nothing at all!

My hair is just turning a little you see,

And lately I've put on a broader-brimmed hat Than I were at your wedding, but you will agree, Old fellow, I look all the better for that.

I'm sometimes a little rheumatic 'tis true,

And my nose is n't quite on a straight line, they say; For all that, I don't think I've changed much, do you? And I don't feel a day older, Jack-not a day.

Alice Cary.

THE BRAKEMAN AT CHURCH.

On the road once more, with Lebanon fading away in the distance, the fat passenger drumming idly on the window-pane, the cross passenger sound asleep, and the tall, thin passenger reading "General Grant's Tour Around the World," and wondering why "Green's August Flower" should be printed above the doors of "A Buddhist Temple at Benares. To me comes the brakeman, and seating himself on the arm of the seat, says, "I went to church yesterday."

"Yes?" I said, with that interested inflection that asks for more. "And what church did you attend?" "Which do you guess?" he asked.

"Some union mission church," I hazarded.

"No," said he; "I don't like to run on these branch roads very much. I don't often go to church, and when I do, I want to run on the main line, where your run is regular, and you go on schedule time and don't have to wait on connections. I don't like to run on a branch. Good enough, but I don't like it."

"Episcopal?" I guessed.

"Limited express, "he said; "all palace cars and two dollars extra for seat, fast time, and only stop at big stations. Nice line, but too exhaustive for a brakeman. All train-men in uniform, conductor's punch and lantern silver-plated, and no train-boys allowed. Then the pas

sengers are allowed to talk back at the conductor, and it makes them too free and easy. No, I could n't stand the palace cars. Rich road, though. Don't often hear of a receiver being appointed for that line. Some mighty nice people travel on it, too."

"Universalist ?" I suggested.

"Broad gauge," said the brakeman; "does too much complimentary business. Everybody travels on a pass. Conductor does n't get a fare once in fifty miles. Stops at flag-stations, and won't run into anything but a union depot. No smoking car on the train. Train orders are rather vague, though, and the train-men don't get along well with the passengers. No, I don't go to the Universalist, but I know some good men who run on that road. "Presbyterian ?" I asked.

"Narrow gauge, eh?" said the brakeman; "pretty track, straight as a rule; tunnel right through a mountain rather than go around it; spirit-level grade; passengers have to show their tickets before they get on the train. Mighty strict road, but the cars are a little narrow; have to sit one in a seat, and no room in the aisle to dance. Then there is no stop-over tickets allowed; got to go straight through to the station you 're ticketed for, or you can't get on at all. When the car is full, no extra coaches; cars built at the shop to hold just so many, and nobody else allowed on. But you don't often hear of an accident on that road. It's run right up to the rules. "Maybe you joined the Free Thinkers?" said I. "Scrub road," said the brakeman; "dirt road-bed and no ballast; no time-card and no train dispatcher. All trains run wild, and every engineer makes his own time, just as he pleases. Smoke if you want to; kind of go-asyou-please road. Too many side-tracks, and every switch wide open all the time, with the switchman sound asleep and the target lamp dead out. Get on as you please and get off when you want to. Don't have to show your tickets, and the conductor is n't expected to do anything but amuse the passengers. sir. I was offered a pass, but I do n't like the line. I don't like to travel on a road that has no terminus. Do you know, sir, I asked a division superintendent where that road run to, and he said he hoped to die if he knew. I asked him if the general superintendent could tell me, and he said he did n't believe they had a general superintendent, and if they had he did n't know anything more about the road than the passengers. I asked him who he reported to, and he said 'nobody.' I asked a conductor who he got his orders from, and he said he did n't take orders from any living

No,